


Something Beyond a Cup of Coffee

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coffee Shops, Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Starbucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 02:14:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is trying to protest Starbucks, really. It’s not his fault that the annoying barista named R won’t leave him alone and keeps bringing him coffee. Really. Not his fault at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Beyond a Cup of Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a quote by Howard Schultz: “Starbucks represents something beyond a cup of coffee.” 
> 
> Original prompt called for something based on [this](http://femmejolras.tumblr.com/post/59617002294/officialgeorgeblagden-hipsterjolras-imagine): 
> 
> “Imagine Enjolras in a bright red elbow-patched blazer and a ‘crush the patriarchy’ t-shirt (glasses pushed to the top of his head and his hair falling out of its ponytail) denouncing the mainstream coffee industry outside Starbucks and handing out leaflets from a battered leather satchel […] Grantaire works at said Starbucks and laughs mercilessly at him from behind the counter. (Then when his shift is over, Grantaire wordlessly hands Enjolras a venti soy iced mocha and walks away) […] Cries because Grantaire would constantly bring Enjolras coffee and tell anyone who would listen about how wrong he was until Enjolras either stormed off to find another corporation to boycott or kissed him wordless”.
> 
> And well, I’ve done my best.

The day dawned a dim gray, and Enjolras glared at first his beeping alarm clock, then the window, then his cellphone, which was predictably already lighting up with messages. With a sigh, he clicked through the messages from his friends, the other members of the activist group, Les Amis de l’ABC. The message from Combeferre was a reminder that he wouldn’t be there today, which Enjolras knew; Combeferre had a chapter of his dissertation due in only a week’s time, and he couldn’t afford to slack off from working on it.

The others were also typical and not fully unexpected, though he still frowned at them. Feuilly had picked up an extra shift at work, Bahorel had gotten in a fight the previous night, Bossuet was sick and Joly needed to take care of him...even Courfeyrac and Jehan weren’t able to come today for reasons neither clearly explained but almost certainly involved each other.

Enjolras sighed and set his phone down. Even if his friends were busy today, even if it was a school day and he was nominally blowing off class for this, he still felt he should go, since the protest at Starbucks had been his idea in the first place.

It was an awareness campaign more than anything, he reminded himself as he dressed. Awareness that coffee served for ridiculous prices and made a ridiculous profit on did not translate into fair wages for the farmers who grew the coffee -- do _not_ get Enjolras started on Starbucks’ so-called Coffee and Farmer Equity practices, which were really just an excuse for them to not actually shell out for fair trade coffee -- as well as awareness that Starbucks had some awful business practices, like not allowing their baristas to unionize; things that the general public should know before paying for overpriced coffee.

He had printed up flyers and leaflets to pass out, and Feuilly had done a really good design of the Starbucks mermaid caught in a fisherman’s net that spelled out ‘Free trade’. All he could do now was hope that people were willing to listen, and he pulled his red pea coat on with a determined set to his shoulders.

Of course, he should have realized that the best-laid plans always went awry. At first, things were going well, though he had forgotten that since it was November, Starbucks had already brought out their red Christmas cups, which just seemed to incense Enjolras more.

At least, it went well until one of the green-aproned baristas from inside the Starbucks came outside, leaning against the wall and listening as Enjolras explained the flyer to a passerby. When Enjolras had finished, the barista snorted. “Do you _actually_ believe the things you’re saying?”

Enjolras glared at him. “Of course,” he snapped, grip tightening on the flyers in his hands. “Not that I expect some coffee-slinging, red cup-supporting barista to understand.”

The barista laughed and, surprisingly, stuck his hand out for Enjolras to shake. “Well this particular coffee-slinging, red cup-supporting barista would love to know your name.”

Staring down at his hand doubtfully, Enjolras juggled the flyers in his hand to reluctantly shake it. “Enjolras.”

The barista smiled widely at him. “Enjolras,” he repeated. “Better than what I was going to call you. Anyway, tell me what exactly you have against the Christmas spirit as embodied by red cups used to hold people’s deliciously warm and frequently peppermint-flavored beverages?”

Enjolras pursed his lips slightly. “I have a lot against it,” he said frostily. “The least being that the peppermint-flavored beverage you speak of is brewed from the sweat and hard work of those who will never be paid properly for it, and served by those who can’t even unionize for a fair wage, all in the bullshit spirit of the holiday celebrating a religious figure who was meant to signify peace and goodwill on this planet.”

“So I’m confused,” the barista said with a smile that said he knew _exactly_ what he was talking about. “Are you protesting Starbucks in general? The commodification of Christmas? Christian holidays? People being stupid enough to spend $4 on a cup of coffee? It’s not clear to me.”

Enjolras’ glare deepened. “I’m protesting all of the above,” he snapped. “Because they’re all symptoms of a specific type of classist issue within our capitalist society.”

Now the barista looked almost eager. “You’re protesting capitalism? I mean, I suppose the red coat should have been a dead giveaway that you’re a communist, but…”

“Socialist,” Enjolras snapped. “Which, depending on how one defines socialism, is already the reality of the society we live in, however much people seem to insist we have this fantastic free market.”

The barista examined him carefully, eyes bright with interest, eyes that were so blue Enjolras half-thought it should be _criminal_ for eyes to be that blue -- not that he was thinking about that, no, not at all -- and then the barista smiled a slow, wide smile. “Well,” he said, “I suppose I’ll leave you to the reality of your society. I have capitalist pigs who need coffee made, after all.”

Enjolras huffed and turned back to the people on the street, trying to pass out the flyers despite feeling generally irritated and distracted. A few minutes later, though, he heard someone clear his throat and turned to find the barista smiling at him. “Here,” he said, pushing one of those red cups that Enjolras hated so very much into his gloved hands. “You look like you’re liable to freeze to death out here.”

Then he just grinned at him in a way that Enjolras found mostly infuriating, and ducked back inside. Enjolras did not watch him walk away, did not stare after him until he was out of sight, did _not_ notice how sexy his ass looked in those jeans...

Damnit.

He looked down at the cup still in his hand and saw that the man had written something on it. Drawn something, in fact, he saw, raising the cup so that it was eye level. There was a small little doodle of a cartoon figure - clearly meant to be Enjolras, though why he appeared to have been drawn with a halo, Enjolras could not tell - brandishing a picket sign that read, "Down with this sort of thing."

Ears flushing as red as his jacket, Enjolras glared murderously at the coffee cup, mentally seething. How _dare_ he insinuate what he was insinuating! Enjolras would have thrown the coffee in the trash if it weren't for the fact that doing so would be an absolute waste of what he was sure was a five-dollar beverage brewed from the blood of the innocent workers who weren't paid a fair wage for their work.

Instead, he walked it down the street to where one of the houseless individuals lived (Enjolras disliked the term homeless, as it equated the term "home" solely with permanent lodging, which was patently untrue). He handed the cup to the gentleman, who accepted it graciously, though as Enjolras was walking away, he asked, "Did you want the number written on here?"

Enjolras turned, frowning. "Sorry?" he asked politely.

The man waved the coffee cup. "Someone named, um, 'R' wrote their phone number on here. Did you want it?"

Blinking at him, Enjolras instantly said, "No, thanks though." Then, after a long moment, he sighed heavily and said, "No, I suppose I should take it down. Just in case."

He saved the number in his phone as “Obnoxious Coffee Guy”, shoved his phone back into his pocket, and marched back to his place in front of the Starbucks with a determined set to his shoulders.

Though he didn’t see the barista, this mysterious “R”, for the rest of the day, Enjolras couldn’t seem to get his image out of his head, and the scowl on his face seemed permanent. He left earlier than he had intended, and when he arrived back at his apartment, he all but collapsed face-first on to the couch, ignoring the sympathetic look Combeferre gave him over his mound of papers. “How’d it go today?”

“Met someone,” Enjolras said, his voice muffled against the couch cushions. “Complete asshole. Told me it was useless and that I was wasting my time.”

Combeferre snorted. “And I’m sure you told him otherwise.” He placed a bookmark into his book and set it down on the coffee table. “Are you giving up the campaign against Starbucks, then?”

Enjolras rolled over and glared at him. “Are you kidding me?” he asked. “I’m going back tomorrow. I’m not going to let some cynical barista get the better of me.”

Sure enough, Enjolras made his way to the Starbucks before the morning rush, newly printed flyers in his messenger bag, ready to pass them out to whomever he could. He took his position in front of the coffee shop and took a deep breath, ready to paste a smile onto his face. He heard a low chuckle from behind him and turned to see R smirking at him. “Back again?” R asked, leaning against the wall, a cigarette dangling from lips.

Enjolras barely acknowledged him, though his shoulders tensed. “It’s illegal to smoke that so close to the door.” He could feel R’s eyes on him as he passed out his flyers to the first customers that arrived, but when he turned back, the cigarette was stubbed out on the ground and R had already disappeared inside the shop.

Still, an hour later, R was outside again, this time pressing a metal thermos into Enjolras’s hands. “Seriously. You’ll get pneumonia or something at this rate. And at least no one has to know what it is you’re drinking, if that matters so much.”

Enjolras blinked down at the thermos and then started to thank R, but the barista was gone again. Enjolras took a tentative sip and closed his eyes in pure bliss. The coffee was perfect. Not that Enjolras would ever admit it, of course, but…

He glanced inside the Starbucks, watching R chatting with a customer, and when R met his eyes, gave him a little wave, which R returned entirely too enthusiastically, making Enjolras roll his eyes and blush slightly as he turned away.

That night, Combeferre peered at him over the top of his laptop and asked casually, “Are you going back tomorrow?”

Enjolras just gave a noncommittal grunt.  

The next day, a drawing of Enjolras similar to the first one on the coffee cup R had given Enjolras was on the chalkboard, a mini-Enjolras waving a flag, along with the note, "Say hello to our friendly neighborhood protester!"

Were Enjolras a more immature person, he might have walked right past, pretending he hadn’t even seen the drawing. As it was, Enjolras lacked most self-preservation instincts and also categorically refused to cede the last word. So he squared his shoulders, pulled the flyers out of his messenger bag, and got to work.

A few minutes later, R appeared at his side. “You don’t give up, do you?” R asked, a small smile on his face as he shook his head at Enjolras.

Enjolras handed the empty thermos from his coffee yesterday to him and narrowed his eyes. “Neither do you, it seems.”

Shrugging, R ducked his head before answering honestly, “Yeah, but in your case it’s optimism that you’re going to change anything, as misguided as that optimism may be. In my case it’s just stupidity.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid.” The words were out of Enjolras’s mouth before he could stop them, and he felt himself turn red.

R’s eyes flashed up to his before dropping again, and he chuckled and shrugged. “Then my initial assessment of you was correct. You really are nothing more than a pretty face.” Enjolras turned a dangerous shade of red, and R laughed loudly. “Kidding. Though I swear it was worth it to watch your face turn that color.”

He turned to go back into the Starbucks, but Enjolras reached out to grab his arm. R turned back, eyebrows raised, and Enjolras just looked at him for a long moment before changing his mind about what he was going to say and instead asking, stupidly, “Can you make my coffee with soy milk today?”

“Bit presumptuous, aren’t we?” R asked with a smirk, but when he brought Enjolras coffee later, it was made with soy milk.

* * *

 

It became a routine.

On days when Enjolras had late class, or on days when Enjolras just flat-out skipped class, on days when Enjolras didn’t have more important things to do, he would return to the Starbucks to pass out flyers and leaflets, ignoring whatever cartoon R had drawn on the chalkboard outside, which always seemed to be aimed at him. And every day that he did, R would come outside, would taunt him, would loudly tell strangers that Enjolras didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, but would also bring Enjolras a thermos full of hot, delicious coffee.

Enjolras wanted to hate him.

He told Combeferre that, several times, often loudly. “He’s an arrogant prick who thinks he’s so much better than other people,” he seethed one night. “Like he isn’t earning every dime of his money from exactly what is wrong in this world.”

Combeferre looked at him, expression neutral. “But he’s also a working man who isn’t allowed to unionize, and most likely, isn’t allowed to speak out against his employer,” he reminded Enjolras quietly. “Isn’t he technically one of the people you’re fighting for?”

Enjolras waved a hand dismissively, scowling. “Only insomuch as I’m technically fighting for everyone. But still. He should _know_ how this affects him, and I’m sure he does, but he refuses to acknowledge it!” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “That’s the worst part. He’s smart, he’s knowledgeable, but he treats this all like it’s some joke.” Glaring down at the article he was supposed to be reading, he said, “He’s a complete asshole.”

The worst part was that he wasn’t, not really, despite what Enjolras said. If anything, during their time together, Enjolras had come to realize that R was funny and smart, and while his sense of humor tended towards sarcasm, he had an incredibly sweet side as well. He was everything that pissed Enjolras off, but he also seemed to be…

Perfect was really not the word Enjolras was looking for, but it was the only word that seemed to come to mind.

And then, one day in early December, Enjolras went to Starbucks to hand out flyers, but there was no drawing on the chalkboard, and after an hour of standing outside in the freezing cold, there was no R either. It shouldn’t have distracted Enjolras the way it did, but he found himself losing his train of thought when talking to people, and even forgetting to hand out flyers.

He blushed and frowned. This was embarrassing. The absence of some barista should not make him feel this way, like there was a part of him missing. He gathered his flyers together and took a deep breath before shoving them into his messenger bag and heading inside the Starbucks. “Excuse me?” he said to the girl behind the counter. “I’m looking for R. He works here. I’m, um, I’m a friend of his.”

“You mean Grantaire?” the girl asked, raising an eyebrow. “It’s his day off.” Enjolras seemed to deflate slightly, and she smirked at him. “Oh, right, you’re that revolutionary that he’s obsessed with, the one always protesting outside. Must have hurt your soul to walk in here.” Enjolras flushed and her smirk grew. “He really hasn’t given you his number after all this time?”

Enjolras stared at her for a long moment before he remembered. Grantaire _had_ given him his phone number, had written it on the first coffee cup he had ever given Enjolras, and he mumbled a thank you before grabbing his phone from his bag and searching through his contacts. He hesitated with the name Obnoxious Coffee Guy highlighted, debating over whether or not to call. He decided to text instead. [To: Obnoxious Coffee Guy] _Hey. It’s Enjolras._

He had to wait less than a minute for a return text. [From: Obnoxious Coffee Guy] _Liar. Ép I’ve told you not to dick around with me, I’m not in the mood._

[To: Obnoxious Coffee Guy] _Um, I’m not lying?_

[From: Obnoxious Coffee Guy] _Prove it._

Enjolras stared at the screen before rolling his eyes and huffing a sigh. He dialed Grantaire’s number and held the phone up to his ear. “Éponine, I swear to God,” Grantaire started, before Enjolras could cut him off.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s not Éponine.”

He heard Grantaire’s intake of breath, and felt a small smile break out on his face. “Trust me, I’m not disappointed, just...hella shocked. I gave you my number, like, a month ago. And you kept it? You must like me more than you’ve let on.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, but his smile grew wider. “I didn’t say that.”

“Why else would you be calling me?” Grantaire countered.

Shrugging, Enjolras pushed the door to the Starbucks open and stepped outside, shivering against the cold air. “What can I say, it’s too quiet without you here. No one arguing with every single thing I say. And besides, you make the _best_ coffee.”

Grantaire’s laugh was soft and almost gentle, and Enjolras felt his cheeks go pink, though he convinced himself that it was just the wind. “Well, you’re just going to have to suffer through today without me.”

Enjolras pursed his lips thoughtfully, and barreled forward before he could rethink what he was about to say. “What if I don’t want to?”

After a long silence, Grantaire asked in a strangled voice, “What did you have in mind?”

Grinning, Enjolras leaned against the building and asked casually, “How do you feel about coffee?”

“Seriously?” Grantaire asked, laughing slightly. “I think I’m going to have to put my foot down on going to get coffee, even with you. We’ve already done that enough. Well, kind of.”

“Yeah, but this would be different,” Enjolras told him.

Grantaire paused for a moment before asking carefully, “How so? Because I expect we would still argue about pretty much everything. And I assume you would still criticize my taste in both coffee and social justice issues. So in that case, I’d rather save that for when I was being paid.”

Enjolras frowned. “But I like arguing with you,” he said, his voice quiet. “It’s...stimulating. And kind of fun. And I...I enjoy spending time with you.” Grantaire was quiet for so long that Enjolras was afraid he had hung up. “Grantaire?”

“Why don’t you just come over to my place?” Grantaire blurted out.

Enjolras’s frown deepened. He was acutely aware of the stack of flyers still in his messenger bag, but he was also aware that he was cold and distracted and would likely only get irritated with people’s apathy the longer he stayed out here. So perhaps against all his better instincts, he said, “Ok.”

* * *

 

The following day found Enjolras in front of Starbucks, bundled up in his red pea coat, passing out flyers to anyone who would take one. A teenager stopped in front of him, obnoxiously chewing gum. “What’re you protesting?” he asked, hands in his pockets and he stared up at Enjolras.

Enjolras took a deep breath. “Well, a lot of things,” he said carefully, eyeing the teenager suspiciously. “Mostly I want people to stop and think about what they’re doing when they buy their coffee. Starbucks has done a lot of bad things, and the more people spend their money there, the less incentive Starbucks has to change their business practices.”

“Oh yeah?” the teenager said in a bored voice. “Like what?”

“For starters, Starbucks only buys about 8% of its coffee fair trade, and the rest of its coffee--”

He was cut off by someone grabbing his arm and pulling him into a kiss. Enjolras stiffened for a moment, then relaxed into it, allowing Grantaire to put his arms around Enjolras’s neck. “Grantaire,” he sighed against Grantaire’s lips, as Grantaire just laughed.

“Sorry. Couldn’t stop myself. I love when you talk, you know that.”

Enjolras accepted the thermos that Grantaire handed him, keenly aware that he was blushing. “Yeah, but when you kiss me, I can’t talk.”

Grantaire just smiled innocently at him and leaned in for another kiss. “Whoops. Oh, well. You’re pretty hot when you’re not talking, too.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras sighed again, but he was smiling as well.

Grantaire chuckled and kissed him once more before moving towards the door. “Not my fault that my boyfriend’s a hot piece of ass. Anyway, incite revolution and make me proud!” he called. Enjolras huffed and looked down, but he was grinning, and had never been happier that none of his friends had been able to make that first protest he had planned at Starbucks.


End file.
